Our maid, wayward, what should we make of this?
A queen to be, a whole kingdom’s promise…
Will she lay crown, scepter, aside, remiss?
What of the questions that still lie amiss?
Casting off her reign and duty, Ven runs-
To shouted commands, and knight’s halting drums.
Off into the woods she sprints, no remorse,
Unable to take demanding recourse.
Deep and deeper in forest she finds her
Long legs pumping, she bounds ever further.
Till with a great shriek! She falls to a halt,
‘Fore a bone-built altar, a deathly vault.
On knees, hands in hair, in daunting terror,
Ven cries aloud, but is caught in measure.
A hand screens her mouth, tightly binds her screams.
“I’ll tell you all,” a rough voice softly teems..
“You and I are bound,” the voice continues,
“It were You I called, and you my venue,
Marked at birth by mine own hand, be glad girl!
For the fortunes would have your faith unfurl!”
Who binds our queen, what does this now portend?